作者：黄维克

“六四”之前

那是1989年初春，北京的天气依然刺骨。 我刚在北大一位老师家中做完客，打电话叫“首汽”出租车来接。对方一听是“北京大学”，立刻沉默，然后挂断。 无奈，我只得步行出校。谁知刚到大门口，就听见前方一片嘈杂，人群汹涌，许多是北大、清华的学生。 他们穿得极为单薄，脚上一双解放牌球鞋，有的连袜子都没有。站在寒风中，瑟瑟发抖，真可以说是“衣着寒颤”。 游行队伍正朝城里进发，抗议几天前悼念胡耀邦的学生，在天安门纪念碑前被捕。 队伍最前方是各国记者，镜头与照明灯照亮了，北京郊区昏暗的街道。第一排的学生举着手，比出“V”字母胜利手势。 我没有别的选择，只能默默地随着人群前行。 走到人民大学门口时，队伍短暂停了下来。人群爆发出一阵高喊：“人大的，出来！” 更多“人大”同学加入了“北大、清华”的队伍。 几位看起来是学生领头的人拿着小纸条，似乎在统一口号。我记得其中一句是：“还我战友！” 还有的就是：“反对官倒”、“人民不再沉默”、…… 队伍继续沿着白石桥路前行，到了双榆树，已接近北三环，也临近我常驻的友谊宾馆。忽然，前方一阵骚动。 几百名穿制服的人列阵路中，堵住了去路。那时，他们的制服好像已经不再叫“公安”，改叫“警察”了。 庞大的队伍被迫停下，后面的人还不清楚前方发生了什么事，只听到有人沿着人群高喊：“谁愿意加入敢死队！” 显然，政府的立场是明确的：不允许学生进入市区，只能沿着环城路绕行。 大约半小时后，一支临时组织起来的“敢死队”，排成了一个方阵。学生们手挽着手，神情坚定，摆出一副“视死如归”的姿态 。 这时，大家高唱起《义勇军进行曲》：“起来！不愿做奴隶的人 …… ” 警察第一排没有携带武器，身着整齐制服，肩带与腰带在夜色中反射出冰冷的白光。警察身后藏着什么秘密？ 而对面，学生们衣衫单薄，脸庞被寒风吹得通红。地面白茫茫的大雪，照得学生们的面孔格外清晰。 我爬上一处花坛，试图看清警察阵列背后有什么，但视野所及仍是一片模糊。身旁有人悄声说：“后面有机关枪。” 就在这时，最前方的学生方阵开始缓缓向前推进。我屏住了呼吸，…… 那一刻空气仿佛凝固了，连历史都屏住了呼吸。 眼看就要与警察撞上了 —— 突然警察队伍像潮水一样向两侧散开，让出一条通道。学生队缓缓地走了过去。

“六四”当天

“李鹏中枪” —— 那几天流传最离谱的一条“爆炸新闻”。那时还没有互联网，香港也谣言满天飞。 那个周末我不用上班，可以说连续两天两夜没有睡觉。六四惨案爆发后，全香港自发“罢市”一天。我宣布管理的公司停业三天，顺便补点瞌睡。 家里早早准备了足够的食物，把书房的电视机搬到客厅，手上握着两个遥控器，桌上摊着五六份中英文报纸，电话听筒随时举起，整个客厅成了作战指挥中心。 那时候我朋友圈里流行一句“老话”：“一有风吹草动，海内外的阶级敌人就蠢蠢欲动。” 香港那时虽有自由未有民主，但我们真心希望大陆的亲友两样都有。 那几天北京早已封城。全世界记者的底片和胶卷都带不出去。幸运的是，天安门广场上刻意扔下了几部移动电话，才有从6月3日到4日不断听到现场的声音。 直到6月4日天亮，才终于看到画面。 记不清是北京饭店还是外交公寓的顶楼，总之有摄影记者在那里拍摄。画面中北京人的勇敢令人落泪：手无寸铁的老百姓，面对着全副武装的野战军。 他们排成一列向前推进，前面有人中弹倒下，后面的人马上冲上去把伤者抬走。没过多久，又继续向前。这下人们终于理解，为什么有人会用肉身去挡坦克。 在屠杀发生前，支持学生的有各种人：首都各部委、中央直属机关的干部、职员、平民百姓，北京的老大爷老太太都在街上，送吃的、送喝的，那就是北京人。 最让人难受的是，香港的记者不断拨打北京各大医院，想确认死伤情况。记者们操着香港口音的普通话，那头是地道的北京腔，两种声音在我耳边至今回响。 我记得特别清楚的是一个电话，是打到我曾经常去的积水潭医院。接电话的是个女护士，声音已经沙哑近乎崩溃： “送来的时候 …… 已经死了…… 满地都是血 …… 快来帮忙吧！” 那个地方我太熟悉了，那里的人我太了解了。那些北京的街道、那些面孔，是我青春里的一部分。 六四之后的几天，从中央到地方、从北京到各省市，社会像被分成了两派。香港坊间也开始流传“兵变”的传闻。 我亲眼看到建国门外的立交桥上，军人与军人之间竟然拔枪相对，有人说是27军与38军对峙。 我当时对自己说：我一定要回去看看 —— 到底发生了什么？ 可几个月之后，当那些血淋淋的照片和影片流传出来，竟然有人说那是好莱坞摄影棚里拍的！

“六四”之后

第二天，全香港爆发了罢市、罢工、罢课。据说那是香港有史以来最大规模的抗议游行，至少有上百万人走上街头。 我记得自己走在游行队伍的前列，身边有不少记者在拍照。队伍中飘扬着青天白日旗，香港人对此也早已习以为常 —— 每年十月，新界的村子里同时飘着两种旗帜。 人群中高举的标语写着：“血债血偿”、“停止屠杀”、“支持学生” …… 口号此起彼伏，如同愤怒的波浪，一浪盖过一浪。 晚上，很多人汇集到港岛中心的维多利亚公园。那里搭起了临时灵台，供市民们静默守夜、低头祈祷，还有不少人席地而坐，进行悼念活动。 接下来的几天，马路上的人们神色哀伤、行色匆匆，仿佛都失去了亲人。 我手头有一张6月8日的机票，从香港飞北京，再去南京。那几天我心里反复挣扎—— 到底还要不要成行？ 那时候没人飞北京，只有人回香港。记得航空公司还让我签了一份“志愿承诺书”。

很多香港朋友都觉得我是去“送死”，但这很符合我的性格 —— 想做的事，总是要去做的。 人这一辈子，总该去做自己认为正确的事情。 北京的朋友劝我不要来，我回答说：“我要见证历史。”南京航空学院的那位在电话里苦劝我：“我们校园里全是坦克，你千万别来。” 但我还是登上了那趟飞机，几乎只有我和空乘人员，没有其他乘客。

飞机落地后，我告诉出租车司机：“我想去天安门广场。”他当场摇头：“绝对不能去！那些戒严部队，真的会开枪。” 在我坚持之下，他只愿意载我到广场附近。那一带已经被封锁，但我还是远远地看到了：地上有坦克的履带印，墙上残留着子弹痕迹，血迹大概已经被清洗了。 整座北京像被掏空一样，街上几乎没有行人。那两天我去了八达岭长城，本想散散心，没想到城墙上也驻守着士兵。 拍照时，有一位年轻士兵轻声问我：“你能不能帮我拍一张照？我想寄给家里的父母。”我犹豫了一下，终究我们还合影了。 回到香港办公室，把胶卷冲洗出来后，同事看到我和解放军士兵的合照，立刻质问我：“你怎么能和屠城部队合影？” 我解释说：“那是驻守北京郊区的农村兵。”

有人建议把照片交给媒体，我拒绝了。 从那以后每年“六四”，我都参加香港维园的烛光晚会。 后来移居加拿大，就改去多伦多大学学生会楼前，那里墙上放着一辆在天安门压坏了的自行车雕塑，令人浮想联翩。

这几年来参加的人越来越少。有人说华人对身份的认同感降低了，也有人说“六四”已经被人遗忘了。

六四，这一天，我永远不会忘记。

这些年，我一直不太愿意多提这些往事。总有人说，嘴巴乱讲话，以后就回不了中国。 我担心见不到年迈的父亲，所以这么多年来，对自己多少还是有一些约束。如今父亲已经离世，那些曾经的顾虑，也随着岁月慢慢远去了。 回头再看，当年那个独自飞往北京的我，虽然有些害怕，却从未犹豫。

作为“六四”这一代的人，何时心灵会得到安慰？ 再倒上一杯威士忌吧。

编辑：黄吉洲 校对：毛一炜 翻译：戈冰

原文请点击链接查看https://x.com/_vicwong/status/1930416971134148791?s=20

From Victoria Park to Tiananmen, From Hong Kong to the Maple Leaf Country: My Memories of June Fourth

By Huang Weike

Before “June Fourth”

It was the early spring of 1989, and the weather in Beijing was still bone-chillingly cold. I had just finished a visit at the home of a professor at Peking University and called a “Shouqi” taxi to pick me up. As soon as the dispatcher heard “Peking University,” they fell into instant silence and then hung up. Left with no alternative, I had to walk out of the campus on foot.

To my surprise, just as I reached the main gate, I heard a massive clamor ahead. A surging crowd had gathered, many of whom were students from Peking University and Tsinghua University. They were dressed extremely thinly, wearing “Jiefang” (Liberation) sneakers on their feet, and some did not even have socks on. Standing in the freezing wind, they were shivering all over; their attire could truly be described as shabby and pitiful.

The demonstration march was heading toward the city center to protest the arrest of students a few days earlier at the Monument to the People’s Heroes in Tiananmen Square, where they had been mourning Hu Yaobang. At the very front of the procession were international journalists, whose camera lenses and spotlights illuminated the dim streets of the Beijing suburbs. The students in the front row held up their hands, making the “V” for victory sign. I had no other choice but to follow the crowd forward in silence.

When we reached the gate of Renmin University of China, the march came to a brief halt. The crowd erupted into a resounding shout: “Students of Renmin U, come out and join us!” More students from Renmin University then streamed out to join the ranks of Peking and Tsinghua universities. A few individuals who appeared to be student leaders held small slips of paper, seemingly coordinating and unifying their slogans. I remember one of the slogans was: “Return my comrades-in-arms!” Others included: “Oppose official profiteering,” “The people will no longer remain silent,” and so forth.

The march continued along Baishiqiao Road. By the time we reached Shuangyushu, we were close to the North Third Ring Road, and also near the Friendship Hotel where I was regularly staying. Suddenly, a commotion broke out at the front. Hundreds of uniformed men were deployed in formation right in the middle of the road, blocking our path. At that time, their uniform designation seemed to have shifted from “Gongan” (Public Security) to “Jingcha” (Police).

The massive procession was forced to a halt. Those at the back did not yet know what was happening ahead, but could only hear someone shouting down the line of the crowd: “Who is willing to join the dare-to-die brigade!” Clearly, the government’s stance was unequivocal: students were forbidden from entering the urban center and were only permitted to detour along the ring roads.

About half an hour later, a temporarily organized “dare-to-die brigade” formed into a tight square phalanx. The students locked arms, their expressions resolute, bearing an attitude of defying death itself. At this moment, everyone began to sing the national anthem, the “March of the Volunteers”: “Arise! Ye who refuse to be slaves…”

The front rank of the police carried no visible weapons. They wore crisp, orderly uniforms, their shoulder straps and belts reflecting a cold white glare in the darkness of the night. What secrets lay hidden behind that wall of police? Directly opposite them, the students stood in their thin garments, their faces flushed red from the biting wind. The vast expanse of white snow covering the ground cast a reflection that made the students’ faces look exceptionally clear.

I climbed onto a flowerbed, trying to catch a glimpse of what was behind the police line, but everything remained a blur as far as my eyes could see. Someone next to me whispered in a hushed tone: “There are machine guns in the back.”

Just then, the foremost student phalanx began to advance forward slowly. I held my breath… at that very instant, the air seemed to congeal, and it felt as though history itself had held its breath. Just when a head-on collision with the police seemed inevitable—suddenly, the police line parted to both sides like an ebbing tide, opening up a passageway. The student column marched through slowly.

Contextual & Historical Notes for English Readers

Li Peng (李鹏): The Premier of the State Council of the People’s Republic of China during the 1989 Tiananmen Square protests. He was widely seen as the hardline political figure behind the declaration of martial law and the subsequent military crackdown.

General Market Strike (罢市 / “Ba Shi”): A form of civil protest common in Hong Kong’s history, where businesses, shops, and markets collectively close down to show political solidarity or express deep public mourning.

“Class Enemies Both at Home and Abroad” (海内外的阶级敌人): A highly charged political idiom rooted in Marxist-Leninist-Maoist rhetoric used extensively by the Chinese Communist Party during political campaigns. The author uses it with a touch of irony to describe how anyone associating with foreign or unorthodox ideas was viewed by the authorities during a crisis.

Diplomatic Residence Compound (外交公寓 / “Waijao Gongyu”): Specifically referring to places like the Jianguomenwai or Qijiayuan Diplomatic Compounds in Beijing. These were guarded residential complexes reserved for foreign diplomats and journalists, offering elevated viewpoints over major thoroughfares (like Chang’an Avenue) and providing a degree of relative safety from which to document the military advance.

Jishuitan Hospital (积水潭医院): Located near the Xizhimen area in Beijing, renowned for its orthopedic and trauma care. During the crackdown, it was one of the major hospitals inundated with victims suffering from gunshot wounds and severe trauma.

Jianguomen (建国门): A major intersection and overpass on the eastern stretch of Chang’an Avenue. It was a strategic entry point for martial law troops moving toward Tiananmen Square and became a flashpoint for military standoffs and civilian resistance.

The 27th Army vs. The 38th Army (27军与38军对峙): A reference to intense rumors of internal military rifts immediately following the crackdown. The 38th Group Army was historically based in Baoding and its commander, Xu Qinxian, famously refused to enforce martial law, leading to local goodwill toward them. The 27th Group Army, brought in from Shijiazhuang, was widely rumored by residents and Hong Kong media to have carried out the most brutal elements of the clearing operations, sparking widespread fears of an armed clash (mutiny) between different military factions on the streets of Beijing.

The Day of “June Fourth”

“Li Peng has been shot”—that was the most outrageous piece of “breaking news” circulating during those days. Back then, the internet did not yet exist, and Hong Kong was flooded with endless rumors. Since I did not have to work that weekend, I went without sleep for virtually two consecutive days and nights. After the June Fourth Massacre erupted, the entirety of Hong Kong spontaneously staged a general market strike for one day. I announced that the company I managed would suspend operations for three days, using the opportunity to catch up on some sleep.

Having prepared an ample supply of food at home well in advance, I moved the television from the study to the living room. Holding two remote controls in my hands, with five or six Chinese and English newspapers spread across the table, and the telephone receiver ready to be picked up at any second, the entire living room transformed into a combat command center. At that time, an “old saying” was highly popular among my circle of friends: “At the slightest rustle of leaves in the wind, class enemies both at home and abroad begin to make their move.” Although Hong Kong possessed freedom but lacked democracy back then, we sincerely hoped that our relatives and friends on the Mainland could have both.

During those days, Beijing had already been placed under a complete lockdown. International journalists could not smuggle out their negatives or film rolls. Fortunately, a few mobile phones had been intentionally left behind in Tiananmen Square, which made it possible to continuously hear the live sounds from the scene from June 3rd to June 4th. It was not until daybreak on June 4th that we finally saw the visual footage.

I cannot recall precisely whether it was filmed from the rooftop of the Beijing Hotel or the Diplomatic Residence Compound, but a photojournalist was definitely there capturing the scenes. The bravery of the Beijing citizens in those frames was heart-wrenching and moving to tears: unarmed, ordinary civilians facing a fully-equipped, combat-ready field army. They advanced in single file; when someone in front was shot and fell, those behind immediately rushed forward to carry the wounded away. Not long after, they continued to push forward. At that moment, people finally understood why some individuals would use their bare bodies to block tanks.

Before the massacre took place, the people supporting the students came from all walks of life: cadres and staff from various capital ministries and commissions, personnel from institutions directly under the Central Committee, ordinary citizens, and the elderly grandpas and grandmas of Beijing. They were all out on the streets, bringing food and water—that was the true essence of the people of Beijing. What felt most agonizing was listening to Hong Kong reporters continuously calling major hospitals in Beijing to confirm the casualties. The journalists spoke in Hong Kong-accented Mandarin while the other end responded in authentic Beijing dialect; those two distinct voices still echo in my ears to this day.

One phone call stands out with absolute clarity—it was placed to Jishuitan Hospital, a place I used to visit frequently. A female nurse answered the phone, her voice already hoarse and on the verge of collapse: “When they were brought in… they were already dead… there is blood all over the floor… please, come and help!” I was all too familiar with that place, and I knew the people there all too well. Those Beijing streets and those faces constitute a defining part of my youth.

In the days following June Fourth, from the central government down to local authorities, and from Beijing to various provinces and municipalities, society seemed to be fractured into two opposing factions. Rumors of a “military mutiny” also began to spread through the streets of Hong Kong. I saw with my own eyes, on the overpass outside Jianguomen, soldiers actually drawing weapons against fellow soldiers; some whispered that it was a standoff between the 27th Army and the 38th Army. I said to myself at the time: I must go back and see for myself—what exactly happened? Yet, a few months later, when those blood-stained photographs and video footages began to circulate, some people actually claimed they were filmed in a Hollywood studio!

After “June Fourth”

The next day, a wave of market strikes, labor strikes, and student strikes erupted across Hong Kong. It was said to be the largest protest demonstration in Hong Kong’s history, with at least a million people taking to the streets. I remember walking at the very front of the procession, with numerous reporters around taking photographs. The “Blue Sky with a White Sun” flags fluttered within the crowd, a sight Hong Kong citizens had long been accustomed to—every October, both types of flags would fly simultaneously in the villages of the New Territories.

The banners held high among the crowd read: “Blood Demands Blood,” “Stop the Massacre,” “Support the Students,” and so forth. Slogans rose and fell one after another like waves of fury, each cresting higher than the last.

In the evening, a massive crowd converged at Victoria Park in the heart of Hong Kong Island. A temporary memorial altar had been erected there, providing a place for citizens to hold a silent vigil, bow their heads in prayer, or sit on the ground to participate in the mourning activities.

Over the next few days, people on the streets bore expressions of deep sorrow and moved in a hurried rush, looking as though they had all lost their own family members. I held a plane ticket for June 8th, scheduled to fly from Hong Kong to Beijing, and then onward to Nanjing. During those days, I struggled intensely with my inner thoughts—should I still make this trip?

At that time, no one was flying to Beijing; people were only fleeing back to Hong Kong. I remember the airline even required me to sign a “Voluntary Waiver and Commitment Form.” Many of my Hong Kong friends felt I was going there just to throw my life away, but this was highly characteristic of my personality—if it is something I want to do, I will always go out and do it. In a person’s life, one must ultimately do what one believes is right.

My friends in Beijing urged me not to come, but I replied, “I want to witness history.” A contact at the Nanjing Aeronautical Institute pleaded with me desperately over the phone: “Our campus is completely filled with tanks, you must absolutely not come.” Yet, I still boarded that flight. It was nearly empty, occupied only by myself and the flight crew, with no other passengers.

When the plane landed, I told the taxi driver, “I want to go to Tiananmen Square.” He shook his head instantly: “You absolutely cannot go! Those martial law troops will truly open fire.” Under my persistence, he was only willing to drive me near the vicinity of the square. That entire area had been cordoned off, but I could still see it from a distance: there were tank tread marks left on the ground, bullet holes remaining on the walls, though the bloodstains had likely already been washed clean.

The entirety of Beijing felt as though it had been completely hollowed out; there were virtually no pedestrians on the streets. Over those two days, I visited the Badaling Great Wall, hoping to clear my mind, but to my surprise, soldiers were stationed along the ramparts there as well.

While I was taking pictures, a young soldier quietly asked me, “Could you take a photo for me? I want to mail it to my parents back home.” I hesitated for a moment, but in the end, we took a photo together.

When I returned to the Hong Kong office and developed the film roll, a colleague saw the photo of me standing with the People’s Liberation Army soldier and immediately questioned me sharply: “How could you take a photo with the troops that slaughtered the city?” I explained, “Those are peasant soldiers stationed in the rural outskirts of Beijing.” Someone suggested handing the photographs over to the media, but I refused.

From then on, every single year on “June Fourth,” I participated in the candlelit vigils at Hong Kong’s Victoria Park. Later, after moving to Canada, I shifted to gathering in front of the University of Toronto Student Union building, where a sculpture of a bicycle crushed in Tiananmen stands on the wall, evoking a flood of thoughts and imagery.

In recent years, the number of attendees has grown smaller and smaller. Some say that the sense of identity among ethnic Chinese has diminished, while others say that “June Fourth” has simply been forgotten by people.

June Fourth. This day, I will never forget.

For many years, I have been quite reluctant to bring up these past events frequently. People always said that if your mouth speaks recklessly, you will not be able to return to China in the future. I was worried about not being able to see my aging father, so for all those years, I placed a certain degree of restraint upon myself. Now that my father has passed away, those former worries have slowly drifted away with the passage of time.

Looking back now, the version of myself who flew alone to Beijing all those years ago may have felt a bit of fear, but never once hesitated.

As a member of the “June Fourth” generation, when will our souls finally find solace?

Let us pour another glass of whisky.

Edited by Huang Jizhou | Proofread by Mao Yiwei | Translated by Ge Bing

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https://x.com/_vicwong/status/1930416971134148791?s=20